And since I just turned 24 yesterday, here I am, sitting in front of four gigantic monitors in the centre of Moscow, writing this.  I celebrated the 24th year of furious nothingness in the company of two Russian whores, a bottle of whiskey and a pack of Dunhill cigarettes. I smiled silently at myself, noting my obvious personal progress – usually I celebrated my birthdays alone. Time is leaving us, or me, all the time, and I felt the urge to strip my soul on paper.

It is warm, light and noisy in here – perfect environment for a writer. My mentor Sergei, 33, who sits next to me, is shouting something victorious, like a happy Viking on the battlefield. You are probably wondering, reader, why am I sitting in front of four screens and poisoning my eyes. The answer is rather banal: I am a broker. Yes, a broker, I know it is dreary. I really dislike the sound of it, and tried for a long time to convince myself, and others, that I’m a salesman or a trader. Yes, I work in the Sales & Trading department of an important Swiss bank, but I have no illusions about it anymore: I am a fucking broker. And being a junior broker on the desk means you are practically a secretary. A wonderful choice of career!

I shouldn’t really complain. With the money that this reverent institution earned on Nazi gold and now is paying me I can afford lesbian gymnasts, blonde ladies, fiery red-heads and dirty-minded brunettes. I favor the dirty-minded brunettes or dirty-minded people in general, or let’s just say I go for interesting personalities. I can also afford expensive restaurants, booze, trendy clothes, a nice apartment, a clean gym and the respect of my dirt-poor family. This is personal progress as well, since for the biggest (and the finest) part of my life I was penniless and unattractive. I don’t even work that much. Most of the time on the job I touch my balls, pick my nose and type nonsense on a keyboard. And for all that dedication, I get $60,000+bonus a year. Not a bad deal, huh?

But everything in this world, ladies and gentlemen, has its cost. And bankers pay for their miraculous fantasies with the officially signed execution of their spirits. It’s not even the amount and the dryness of work – I get my shit done when it’s needed – but the personal humiliation a junior financer goes through every day. I am lucky enough to have three (!) bosses: my mentor, director and managing director, all of whom sit right next to me. Plus another five senior and “more experienced” bankers on the floor. Now imagine all these arrogant, unsympathetic and usually graceless people yelling at you and delivering a lush kick on your ass on every appropriate and inappropriate occasion, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. The soul closes, the curtain drops and you acquire the mentality of a servant, or even slave. And all of that in the sterile and lifeless office environment, which for poets with passion for adventure, equals death.

Today some poor schmuck in the back office made a decision to leave the prison. He wrote his farewell in an e-mail sent to the rest of the slaves:

Dear colleagues,

Today is my last working day. It was a great pleasure to work with you.
Thank you very much for this experience.
I wish you good luck and all the best.
You can find me via:
mobile: ...

With kind regards and best wishes,

Alexander Kasatkin.

The name of the hero is Alexander Kasatkin. “Kasatka” in Russian means Killer Whale. Go now, go Killer Whale! Roam through the unknown waters, become a bandit or a sailor. I've automatically imagined what he really had in mind:

Dear muppets,

Today I set myself free. It was disgusting to see your ignorant faces every day.
Thank you for giving me a hard time.
Go fuck yourselves.
You can find me in your next pathetic lives.

AMF (Adios Motherfuckers).

Alexander Killer Whale

Walking back on snowy Arbat I suddenly realize that this book is not going to be about a self-digging degrading dooshbag in a corporate environment. It is going to be about pavement and people who walk on it, sleep on it and make love on it. And garbage – Moscow’s garbage is the most beautiful garbage in the world. I knew an artist who drew garbage like flowers. I’m thinking about a strong drink and a surprise meeting with a woman I knew years ago, my job and my bosses. It's a fucking trap. It would be bold to say that life consists of traps. Be a clown in darkness. Funny. Funny. Another line.

- "Yoko"

Illustration by Gustaf von Arbin 

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